


Living Haze

by poptod



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Romance, domestic abuse, gender neutral reader, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 04:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: John realizes you're in an abusive relationship, but you're being difficult on letting go of your abuser.





	Living Haze

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry about this but there's a lot of notes I have to make about this. First being, you're originally in a relationship with Sam Baker, who is an air force pilot. The main reason I wrote this entire fanfic is because many of the abuse/comfort fics that I've read don't have the reader, or the one being abused, be realistic. The reactions in fiction that I've read are totally different to the real reactions of those being abused, such as the fact that the victim often loves and will defend their abuser. I'd also like to say that Sam Baker does have a large amount of issues, and while that gives an explanation for the abuse, it does NOT excuse it whatsoever. No one should ever be hurt by someone they love.

He really wondered how he ended up in this position. A fruity, highly alcoholic drink in his limp hand, the small umbrella from it being twirled in his mouth with his tongue, staring up disinterested at a nearly naked woman. She swayed her hips to a synthesized beat, and he looked back down at the table. With a sigh, he set his drink down, rubbing his face tiredly. The umbrella fell from his lips and onto the table.

“Falling asleep already?” Roger, sitting to his right, clamped a hand on his shoulder tightly, smiling brightly at him. John squinted lightly, his smile tight.

“Uh, not that interesting,” he said distractedly, gesturing vaguely at the woman. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty, she was gorgeous, but John really wasn’t in the mood. He usually would be, but he had a tune in his head he couldn’t get out, and it was bothering him. He had a bad feeling it came from an already existing song, but he simply _could not_ think of what song it could be.

“ _Not interesting_? You feelin’ alright in the head?” Roger laughed, clutching his stomach with both hands as he leaned back, clearly too intoxicated in both alcohol and in his own fumes. John rolled his eyes, turning his attention to Freddie, sitting two seats away from him. Next to him on his right was Brian, then Freddie, who also looked about as interested as him. He caught Fred’s eye, and looking embarrassed, Freddie looked up at the woman, a renewed vigor in his body but looking rather dull in the eyes. John wearily turned away again, giving the club another once over.

The tables were somewhat filled, mostly with rambunctious single men, but there were a few women. By his estimate, around 20% of the women were lesbians, and the other 80% were tired girlfriends with their boyfriends. His back now fully turned from the woman in front of him and his friends, he scanned over the couples in the club. In the corner, there were two men making out, which was more than odd, but John felt it wasn’t really his place to ask why two gay men were in a strip club. Maybe there would be a male performance soon?

He wasn’t really sure how he felt about that.

He continued his onward scan, through a few more couples, before landing on a rather familiar face -

_you_.

What in the world were you doing here? From what John remembered of you, though it was a few years ago now that he’d last seen you, you were really quite quiet. Keeping mostly to yourself, and on weekends such as this time you’d be more likely to be seen sitting underneath your blanket comatose than to be seen here. He blinked a few times, making sure he wasn’t just imagining you. Well, thinking about it now, he had missed you.

“Bri, I’m going to go see a friend. Just noticed ‘em,” John tapped Brian’s shoulder, to which he nodded absently before intently returning his attention to the woman. John frowned a little bit, but turned around, weaving through crowds of half naked waitresses and waiters, through a small crowd of dancing people and towards your table. You sat alone with a man, him sitting rather close to you. He felt his muscles tense as he realized that it was probably a boyfriend of yours.

It had been an issue for a while, though it had faded over the years of not seeing you, that he had a slight… well, it is to say that he had feelings… he thought you were interesting. When he was much younger he thought he was in love with you, which was, a hilarious thought. He wasn’t in love with you. He thought you were interesting. Besides, you were taken. Obviously.

“(Y/N),” he said, acting a little surprised in order to show his former surprise at seeing you. He stopped a few centimeters before actually touching your table, folding his hands neatly together behind his back as he attempted a charming smile in your direction.

“J-John?” You said, your voice hesitant. You put both your hands on the table, pushing yourself upwards. You stepped out of your seat, walking towards him. John continued smiling, a genuine happiness at seeing your welfare. You smiled at him as well, patting his shoulder as a greeting.

_Hmm. Odd_ , he thought to himself. When he had known you, you were nearly overbearingly affectionate, only stopping when someone showed legitimate discomfort. Luckily for himself, he really rather enjoyed hugs and all that platonic touch, so meeting you had been a dream.

“It’s so good to see you again (Y/N),”he said, laughing a bit at the end.

“Yeah, uh,” you paused, turning around to gesture to the man now standing up, then turning back to him, “this is my boyfriend. Sam.” The man, apparently named Sam, shook John’s hand firmly, smiling at him. He was average sized, slightly muscular, and had crew cut hair. He wore military pants, he noticed as he shook his hand.

“Sam Baker,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming.

“You’re military?” John asked before he could stop himself, looking between the pants and Sam’s face. Sam laughed, looking down at his own pants and back up at John.

“Yeah, air force,” he said, his American accent clear. The career would explain why he was in London, then.

“I’m a bassist. Not quite as honorable,” John joked, which made you and Sam laugh. A second after, someone from the bar called Sam’s name. He left with a quick apology, giving you a quick kiss on the head.

“How’ve you been? What’ve you been doing?” He asked quickly, turning his attention fully to you. You gestured for him to sit, and following you he did.

“Oh, um, I don’t work. Sam does pretty well for both of us,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck shyly.

“You live together? Engaged?” Feeling slightly dampened, John made up for it by leaning forward and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He’d seen Roger do it, surely he could as well. You laughed, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

“No, no, we’re not, um, there yet. I-“ you looked away from him, mind wandering elsewhere, your face falling flat and far away. You quickly turned back to him, clearing your throat. “I mostly stay at home. He’s got a pretty big house for military budget, so it can take a bit to take care of,” you laughed.

“I thought you wanted to become a painter, or a writer,” he said sadly, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Uh, yeah. Didn’t really work out,” you said curtly. John quickly changed the subject upon seeing your discomfort.

“So, what’s Sam like?”

“He’s wonderful,” you smiled sheepishly, “quiet at times, loud and confident at others. He’s sweet, though. Don’t think I could ask for a better guy.” John looked at the bar, to Sam who was taking far too long with the woman bartending. He sighed, turning back to you.

“Does he treat you right?” John asked teasingly, grabbing your arm laying on the table in a mock threatening way. You let out a mix between a whine and a gasp, pulling your arm back quickly. You rubbed your wrist gently with your hand, and your sleeve rode up slightly.

_Bruises._ Yellow and purple, new and old. A few crusted over. Where in the world could you have gotten those? You didn’t have anything dangerous at work, because you didn’t work. And besides that, you didn’t get out much if you were still the same person, much less getting into fights. So what could hurt you repeatedly to the extent that nearly your entire arm looked purple?

Realization hit him hard as lightning and just as fast, his eyes flickering like poisoned flame towards Sam.

“ _(Y/N)_ ,” he hissed, leaning in close to you, his body practically pressed up fully against the table.

“What?!” You asked quietly, still gently rubbing your arm, but this time under the table. Your eyes also stole a glance at Sam, who was still not paying any attention to the two of you.

“Those are bruises! Do you think I’m fucking thick? It doesn’t take an astrophysicist to see where they came from,” he whispered, his hands clenched tightly on the edge of the table.

“Okay, fine! He gets a little angry sometimes. It’s not his fault, he’s -“

“Don’t give him an excuse!”

“John, he’s a soldier! This is common, it’s fine, I’m fine,” you said shakily, verging on tears. Because of him. Why were you making this so difficult? He thought back to old high school psychology textbooks, something called Stockholm Syndrome, things where the one being injured wouldn’t leave even if they could, that they would stay because they loved the one hurting them so much. He felt his heart pang, whether with anger or sadness he couldn’t tell.

“(Y/N) that doesn’t excuse shit and you know it,” John quickly retorted. Out of nowhere, you rolled your shoulders back, sniffing lightly and relaxing your posture. He copied, slightly confused.

“I’m ready to go. You?” Sam, his voice still warm and welcoming, had his hands on his hips. His posture exuded friendly. He was smiling at you, and you returned it. John felt his whole body vibrate.

“Yeah. See you around John,” you said cooly, turning around and leaving, your hand intertwined with Sam’s.

He sat there for a good while, mouth slack with surprise and shock. After fully understanding and contemplating the situation, he turned to his own table. The three of them finally noticed him fully, asking him where he’d been.

He explained the situation to the three, wondering if they had any advice.

“So this person you fancy, just doesn’t realize-“

“I don’t fancy (Y/N),” he quickly interrupted, then gestured for Brian to continue.

“Mmm, sounds like you do. We can help your situation though,” Freddie said, stirring his drink while intently watching the scene play out.

“I don’t think you’ll have the best advice. I just wanted you to know what was happening,” John replied.

“My advice is leave it alone. Your friend doesn’t want your help and while this cycle continues, won’t accept it, so you have to wait for (Y/N) to come to you,” Roger said, leaning back in his chair.

“That sounds like the worst thing to do,” Brian said in reply, looking legitimately confused. “Shouldn’t you help? Call the police, something?”

John remembered that Roger had history with abuse, but he had never elaborated on it. That would make his advice more worthwhile, but John couldn’t put his finger on why that sounded like a terrible idea.

“I’ll think of something. For now, I’ll just be there, I suppose,” he shrugged, leaning his head on his hand.

“Let’s get you home,” Freddie suggested, standing up, the group quickly following him outside. Roger took out a cigarette the minute they stepped outside, lighting it with ease.

“How far is it? Shall we call a cab?” Freddie turned, walking backwards down the empty walkway.

“Should be just up here actually,” John said quietly. The rest of the very short trip was quiet, and the boys left him alone to think in his big, empty house that he never liked to spend time in recently.

He thought for a minute, sitting blankly on his couch, that maybe he’d mistaken it. Perhaps you weren’t being abused. Then again, you had said something along the lines of “Fine, he gets a tad angry, but he’s fine,” and something like “it’s not his fault,” which was of course bullshit. He may be a soldier, he may have seen horrible things, John gave him that. He knew nothing of Sam and his life, and it could very well have been that Sam lost a good friend, watched him get tortured, or maybe even was tortured himself. John simply did not know, and he couldn’t judge.

What he _could_ judge though was the fact that no one, no matter what situation, should hurt another person that they love. They shouldn’t hurt someone period, much less someone as sweet and as quiet yet openly caring as you were. If someone felt like hurting their loved ones, fine, whatever, but get some help, don’t fucking _act on it_.

He felt his nails curling into the skin of his legs, through his pants. He quickly relaxed his hand. He stood up, thinking over his options.

Number one, do nothing. Roger’s suggestion. He most likely never hears from you again, after him angering you so much, and the fact that it was chance he was in that club, and it looked like chance that you two were there. He didn’t know where you lived, and you didn’t know where he lived, though it wouldn’t be hard to find out. Best outcome, you reach out and mend broken strings, and you’ve already dumped the guy or are planning on it. Worst outcome, he finds your eulogy in the local newspaper.

Not doing that one, he thought quickly to himself.

Option B, or Number Two, he calls the police, which was Brian’s advice. The outcome of that would be he is called in to help confirm that you were being beat. You’d never forgive him, no matter what happened in the future, simply for betraying your trust in him. You probably get forced counseling, and have to pick up the empty shards of your life, alone.

Not… the best choice.

The last choice he had come up with, his own thoughts on the matter, were to confront you in person. This way he could sway with his own words, not through inaction or police action. Come to worst, he apologizes for his behavior, remains friends with you, and the two of you go on merrily. If it goes well, he gets you to break up, swoops you up and kisses you-

Hmm. Maybe not that last bit. But he does save you in that one. And the worst was the best of another.

That settled it in his mind for him, his pacing finally stopping as he decided to look up your place of residence in the morning. He rushed through getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth and putting on pajamas, and by the time he was in bed, he didn’t feel very tired at all. He tossed and turned for a few hours before finally wearing himself out, falling into sleep.

~*~

When he awoke in the morning, he awoke with birdsong. Most days he only woke up when the sun shone in his eyes, but he supposed he might’ve been a bit excited for todays events. Maybe excited was the wrong word. It sounded wrong, and offensive. He retried it with anticipated, and nervous, and that felt better on his conscious.

He thought of a few various ways he could get your address. Asking friends wasn’t likely to cut it. Asking the police was suspicious in more than one circumstance.

He bit into his toast, feeling it crunch dryly.

Yellow pages would probably work, he thought to himself, still slightly in pain from the shards of burnt toast in his mouth.

He spent the rest of the morning looking through the thick book, scanning for a _Sam Baker_. There were quite a few, and he whined a little looking at the long list.

Still looking at the book, he called Freddie’s number, letting the phone rest between his ear and shoulder as he counted the number of Sam Bakers.

“Hello?” Freddie’s familiar, crackled and staticky voice came through the receiver.

“Freddie, I need your help,” John said quickly, still counting in his head.

“Go on,” Freddie said, his voice low and jokingly seductive.

“I need to find (Y/N)’s place of resident, which is at Sam, the boyfriend’s house. But there’s a lot of Sam’s in London, isn’t there?”

“Darling please tell me you know his last name,” Freddie groaned a little over the receiver.

“ _Yes_ ,“ John hissed. ”Sam Baker. There’s a whole list of Sam Baker’s ‘ere, and I may need your help,” he clarified.

“Sure you aren’t being too rash?”

“I’m just going to go and talk to (Y/N) again. Give my address for contact purposes.Maybe I’ll convince to a break up, maybe I’ll just apologize for my behavior last night. Using my words will work better than plain absence of police interference.”

“Mm. Makes sense really. You always were the smart one in the band,” Freddie teased. John could just imagine his position, still in bed, leaning seductively on one arm in a red bathrobe, twirling the phone chord girlishly with the other hand.

“You are aware that Brian is an astrophysicist,” John laughed.

“And Roger is a doctor, and you’re an engineer. Life is full of surprises, isn’t it dear?” The two of them laughed.

“I’llbe over in just a moment, say ten to twenty minutes? I’ve got to be dressed in order to leave the house unfortunately,” Freddie said, acting miffed about the whole situation. John held back a laugh.

“See ya,” John replied, putting the phone down on the stand.

He gave Freddie about two to three hours before he made it over.

To his surprise, fourty minutes later, there was a ring of the doorbell. John got up from his contemplation of wondering if Sam Baker with a slightly thicker B was more likely to be your Sam, over a Sam Baker who’s address was slightly melded into the M of Baker, Sam. He invited his friend in, showing him to the table carrying the yellow pages book. Freddie took one look at it, groaning.

“It’s just a page. It’s fine. I’ve had worse,” Freddie said nonchalantly.

“When did you need to find someone from here?”

“Friend of mind was tracking down a man named Jim Harrison,” Freddie groaned, closing his eyes in annoyance. John smiled with sympathy.

From there they went through the houses, meeting a variety of different people. Some were rather angry, others plain confused, and some others seemed to be under the illusion that he was on a romantic quest for righteousness. Well, two had been under that illusion, but it was weird that it had happened twice. It wasn’t like he was explaining his situation to every single person he opened the door to.

He and Freddie made their adventure all across the whole of London before it struck John that you may live _outside_ of London, and at that point he allowed himself to believe that if you weren’t a resident of London his search would be fruitless.

Luckily for him, at the fifth to last, before he could even knock on the door, he saw you. Through the window, before he and Freddie could be spotted, he saw you. You wore an apron, and you were whistling to yourself, lips pursed gently, and drying a plate in your hand. John sighed, smiling as he watched you move.

“Lovesick fool,” Freddie said in a terrible posh accent. John shoved him away, into a brick wall.

You wore short sleeves, and no makeup. He hadn’t noticed that you were wearing it before, but you must’ve been, because the cut on your cheek was nearly fully healed but still visible. Your arms were littered with bruises, some in the actual shape of what he guessed was Sam’s thumb. He shivered a bit.

“Stay here Freddie, I’ll go talk,” John whispered, and Freddie nodded. John highly doubted that Freddie would listen, but he thought he might as well try.

He jogged across the street, walking up the walkway to your doorway, and he knocked on it. He kept his hands neatly behind his back, hoping he looked halfway decent.

“John,” you said, looking mildly surprised. You were wearing a sweatshirt, an apron on underneath it. He had to physically stop himself from either rolling his eyes or hugging you. Instead, he looked down at you, a shaky smile.

“(Y/N)… I wanted to say, um, it really was good to see you again. I don’t want to stop seeing you,” John started off. You just continued looking at him.

“What I’m trying to say is -“

“You’re sorry?” You finished for him, still with that neutral facial expression. He nodded, desperately hoping you’d listen to him longer.

To his wish and more, you opened the door further, letting him in.

The inside of the house was not large like you had explained it to be. It was a bit cozy actually, every surface completely clean. Painted white, the fireplace also completely white, which was a marvel in itself. It looked as though a horde of house cleaners came through here just seconds ago.

He turned back to you. He hadn’t really planned on getting this far, so he was at a loss for words.

“(Y/N) you can’t blame me for being worried, though I am sorry for acting rashly,” he decided was a good place to start. Easy, but confronting the issue.

“Please sit down, I’ll put the kettle on,” you said quietly, dismissing him. John frowned a bit, but sat on the light blue couch anyways. It was a tastefully decorated living room, but it looked more like a place of residence than a home. You joined him just a minute later, sitting primly on the opposing chair.

“I know the situation looks bad, but it isn’t. Sam is very kind,” you said, finally in reply of his statement.

”Is he getting therapy?”

You took a while to respond.

“He’s busy.”

“Not an excuse,” John replied quickly. He balled his hands into fists, and you flinched. Noticing, he quickly went to grinding his teeth instead. To keep from just going up and kidnapping you, taking you far away from his nightmare of a clean household.

He sighed.

“You’ve changed so much since I last saw you,” he said quietly, rubbing his hand on the rough material of the couch.

“You saw me three years ago. People change John.”

“Not like this. I’ve changed, yeah, but not to the point where I’m unrecognizable. I’ve gotten more mature, come out of my shell a bit, but…” he paused before continuing, “I haven’t gone further into hiding. You used to -“

_Touch me so much._

“Be so happy,” he finished. Damn it, he really missed being able to physically touch you without you flinching away.

“I _am_ happy, John. Can’t you realize that?”

“Being locked up in a house, cleaning all day without being _allowed_ to even leave or pursue a lifelong dream isn’t happy! It’s control, he’s _controlling_ you, can’t you realize _this_?”

The kettle went off, singing high and hurting his ears a bit. You stood, brushing yourself off, and headed into the kitchen. He followed.

“I miss you,” he said quietly, watching you pour water into two cups.

“I’m right here,” you said, not turning around to face him.

“An empty shell of who you are is right here.”

Yes, you were quiet when he knew you. But alone, you were livelier than anyone he had ever met. He remembered meeting you in college, making the assumption that you were never going to talk to him. He admired you from afar, absolutely convinced he was totally in love with you, watching you take notes in class. To his surprise, you simply came up to him one day, introduced yourself, and invited him to tea.

It was all awfully confusing, but you were kind, open, and overall completely welcoming. He could’ve told you anything, could’ve said he murdered a man and he was 90% sure you would’ve helped to hide the body.

“I’m right here John,” you repeated, quieter, more sincere. You cupped warm hands around his face, and he melted in your touch. He leaned in, closing his eyes, his heart pounding warmly in his chest. His hand came up, holding yours in his, still holding his cheek.

“(Y/N) I’m begging you, please don’t stay with him. In the very least make him get some help, _please_ ,” he murmured, opening his eyes just slightly to gauge your reaction.

“You should leave,” you said in reply, your hands moving away. His hand trailed after yours for a moment before curling back in on himself.

“What?”

“You should leave. I don’t need you messing up my life,” you clarified.

“(Y/N)-“

“Fuck off!” You yelled, your body tensing up and anger spitting towards him like hail.

All he wanted to do was encompass you in the biggest hug, but even if you agreed with him it would be painful for you.

Taking out a small piece of paper from his pocket, he set it on the counter.

"My address," he explained curtly, taking one last glance at you.

He turned around and left, leaving both you and two cups of cooling tea.

Returning to the spot where he left Freddie, not expecting to find him there at all, he found him talking with a stranger. Both sitting on the ground next to a large garbage can.

“Fred? Who’s this?”

“John! This is my new friend Anthony. I found him next to the trash,” Freddie stood up, whacking John on the shoulder as he introduced the new friend.This supposed new friend looked like a perfect match for Freddie, wearing women’s clothing that was too tight around gangly legs, with red hair and totally black sunglasses.

“Anthony J. Crowley, at your service,” the man stood, a little higher than John, and shook his hand.

“John Deacon,” he quickly replied.

“Ah well anyways, how did it go? Not well I’m assuming, since you look like you’re verging on tears,” Freddie said, before leaning in and whispering, “I explained the situation to Anthony.”

"Ordered me to leave,” John said, laughing without humour. “I dunno what’s happened. Just.. a totally different person now, an’ won’t listen to reason.”

“Crowley and I were going to get drinks, I think that’d take your mind off the situation,” Freddie suggested, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders.

“Thanks, but I think I should go home. If I drink I’ll drink myself to oblivion,” John replied flatly, looking down at the ground.

“You’re missing out on some good liquor. Come Freddie, I should introduce you to my, uh, friend. He’s really an angel.”

The two of them left, leaving behind John, who had a lot to think about.

He called a cab home, and thought over the morning he had. When he arrived at his house, he mostly sat in contemplation, thinking over the time he had known you and wondering if there were any signs that you would have done this. Given up on lifelong dreams in order to clean a house incessantly, let yourself roll over and get beaten by a man who clearly doesn’t love you.

What kind of man, or person in general would hit someone they love?

He would never hit you. If he ever were in a relationship with you, which he wouldn’t be because at this point even if he did admit his feelings for you you obviously wouldn’t reciprocate them, he’d never hurt you. Not even emotionally. If he did, he’d do his damnedest to make up for it. To apologize. Take steps to make sure it never happened again. Not to be cliche, but you deserved better. Someone who would treat you right, and at the very bare minimum, wouldn’t _fucking beat you_. He felt his muscles tense with rage, and he took a few deep breaths.

His bad choice left two options, which were do nothing and call the police. He really wasn’t very prepared to call the police. It seemed near drastic, and despite the fact that he knew drastic measures had to be taken, it seemed too much. You could take care of yourself. If there was anything he knew about you, you could take care of yourself.

He repeated that to himself. He knew it to be true, but he wasn’t sure how much he believed it.

He had been sorely wrong. Or sorely right, however you look at it, depending on your point of view. There was the fact that yes, you did take care of yourself by going to him, but no, you also didn’t take care of yourself in the fact that you should’ve come sooner. Before verging on death would’ve been preferable.

It was at around 1 in the morning that John heard a knock at the door, and getting up with much exhaustion, he looked through the window first. Just to make sure it wasn’t a murderer.

Lucky for him, it wasn’t. It was you, covered head to toe in blood, limping, breathing weakly with ragged intake of air. He rushed to the door, letting it fly open as he let you in.

“John,” you mumbled, before falling directly into his arms. He caught you, just barely, getting flakes and pools of blood stuck to his night shirt. He took you inside, laying you on the couch. He kneeled beside you.

“(Y/N), love, I’m going to call the paramedics,” John said to you, making sure to keep his voice quiet, making an attempt at being sweet. But instead of letting him, you grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“No. I’ve… had worse, I need you,” was what came out of your mouth.

John debated listening to you. He did a once over of your body, noticing a swollen lip and eye, a rather deep cut on your cheek, and you seemed to be bleeding somewhere around the knees, as well as on your palms. There were most likely more underneath your clothing.

“I need to take your shirt off,” he said, fumbling with the sticky end of your shirt.

“Not before you take me out you won’t,” you slurred, nearly incoherent, but it was nice to know you still kept your sense of humour.

“(Y/N),” John sighed, pulling the shirt over your head.

There were bruises, large and swollen, all across the sides of your torso.

“What happened?”

“Got drunk, broke a bottle and cut my head up. Fell down I did,” you feebly explained. He motioned for you to continue, which you did after a moments breath. “Kicked me in the side.”

“More than once,” he noted, his hand hovering just above the skin.

“I’ll live. Just bruised,” you mumbled, your hand moving to cup his cheek.

“What happened to your hands? Your knees?”

“Fell down, scraped.”

“Oh (Y/N),” he said softly, voice faint and desperate. He put a hand on your head, running his fingers through mildly sticky hair. “How does a bath sound?”

“Fannnntastic,” you replied. John laughed a little bit, lifting you up to your feet and helping you up the stairs towards the bathroom.

It was difficult getting up the steps, but you managed it, one step at a time. You leaned heavily on John, your arm around his shoulders for support. Halfway up the journey of the steps, you began humming to yourself weakly, but John couldn’t put a name to the tune. Eventually, he got you to the bathroom, sitting you down on the toilet. He turned the light on, letting it fill the area with warm light.

He turned the water on, periodically making sure that it was a good temperature for you. Filling the tub about 1/4 of the way full, he stopped it. He wanted to make sure there was room so that he could use the shower head on you.

“Uh, (Y/N), I’m going to need to take off your clothes,” he said, kneeling down in front of you. Your gaze didn’t meet his, staring off into the distance, far away from your real situation.

“(Y/N)?”

Your eyes finally found his, bright and hopeless.

“John,” you replied.

“I need to take off your clothes,” he repeated.

“Who cares, you already took off my shirt. L-leave my pants on,” you stuttered, touching his face with just one finger. It was a little awkward, the way you touched him, but he didn’t mind. He took off your trousers and undershirt, leaving you in your pants and lifting you to sit in the warm water.

“Feel good?” He asked, trying not to look at the bruises surrounding your legs in a horrific decoration. You just nodded.

“Gonna turn the shower head on,” he told you, making sure the pressure would be light, and the temperature matching the bath water. Again, you nodded.

He ran it up your head, letting the water run down your skin, slicking your hair back. The water began turning the lightest red, tainted with your blood. John felt himself intake a shaky breath, watching the blood swirl. You began humming again, staring off into the distance.

Eventually all that was left were bruises, clean cuts, and of course your swollen lip and eye. Your eye had gone down considerably, which he appreciated.

“Looking better,” he said, turning the shower head off.

“Better than you I bet,” you replied, voice faint and cracking. John ignored your weak voice, laughing at your comment. He grabbed a towel, helping you get out. He sat you on the edge of the white tub, drying off your various appendages slowly and carefully, trying not to apply any pressure if possible. You still whimpered, taking deep breaths.

“You were right y’know,” you said out of nowhere, your voice no longer cracking. John turned around from hanging the towel back up.

“What?”

“Sam. He stopped apologizing long ago. I don’t know what I was thinking. He was so sweet,” you trailed off.

“He was terrible. No one ‘sweet’ would beat the living hell out of you,” he said, kneeling in front of you once again. He took your hands in his, holding them gently.

“I’m glass, aren’t I,” you mumbled weakly.

“You’re fragile but not at all weak,” John said, scooting a bit closer to you. “Come on, let’s get you in some clothes, yeah?”

You nodded absently, silent tears stinging the cuts on your cheeks. John noticed, but didn’t say anything. Leading you into his bedroom, he set you on the bed, pulling out a night shirt and trousers that were probably too big for you.

“Lift,” he said, signaling you to lift your legs so he could slide them up to your waist. After he was done, he raised your arms, slipping the large shirt over your head.

“Soft,” you noticed, pinching the material of your trousers and rubbing it. John chuckled.

“Yeah.”

He sat down next to you, and you didn’t move. The both of you were silent, you looking at the ground and him looking at you worriedly.

“What happened with Sam? How’d you manage to escape?” John asked, hoping that you wouldn’t feel too sensitive about the subject.

“Not sure. He just screamed ‘fuck,’ and left, so I came here,” you answered.

_I love you._

“I’m glad you came to me,” he said quietly. You finally turned to him, moving your whole body to fully see him.

“John,” you said, uttering his name once more as if he were royalty.

“(Y/N)?”

You didn’t say anything more, but your hand rested on his knee, making its’ way upwards towards his hip.

“I need…” you paused after that. He was quiet, waiting for you to continue. Your eyes darted everywhere, hands shaking and uncertain.

“I need you,” you finally finished, looking him directly in the eye.

“Y-you can’t say that (Y/N), you’re just latching onto me because you’ve been hurt,” John immediately replied, feeling his heart beginning to disintegrate as his words left his lips like nauseous gas.

“John,” you repeated again, wrapping your arms around his waist, scooting yourself closer so you were nearly in his lap. Your head rested on his chest, and he felt your breath through his shirt. You repeated his name with your voice sweet as ever again and again, as if it were a mantra of calming peace. Slowly, he wrapped his own arms around you. After a few more seconds he gave in, dipping his face to rest in your shoulder, hiding away in the soft comfort of you and your scent mixed with his own.

“(Y/N), love,” was all he could manage, his nerves and emotions far too overstimulated to manage much else. You pulled back slightly, looking ready to kiss him _very hard_ , but he stopped you.

“If you must kiss me-“

“I must,” you interrupted. John blushed intensely, but continued.

“Kiss me gently,” he finished softly, placing your head in his hands, bringing you forward ever so slightly. He let you close the gap, lips brushing against his ever so slightly. Your breath felt hot upon his skin, on his lips, before you took a deep breath and kissed him.

It was gentle, the lightest amount of touch used by the both of you. He felt every movement you made, savoring and reveling in your warmth and love. He took care around your split lip, kissing your cut before returning to fully encompass your lips. His heart sped up as you continued, deepening ever so slightly, your thumb rubbing circles on his waist. He felt his skin go hot, nerves firing off at any movement.

“John,” you sighed dreamily, still close as ever, still kissing him.

The reverence and delight in your tone made him lose near all self control, feeling a desperate living need to kiss you as hard as possible. Instead he buried his head in your neck, cheeks flushed bright red and hot against your skin. Your hand went to his hair, playing with it and stroking it with the grace of forgotten angels.

“You’re far too much for me to handle. I think I’ll go insane if I stay away from you too long,” John rambled, face still pressed against your neck, arms tight as he could around your waist and shoulders without hurting you.

“Good thing I don’t want you gone too long then,” you replied, your breath stuttering as you continued stroking his hair.

“I love you,” he blurted out, cringing slightly and curling his hands into fists as he realized what he said.

“I’ve loved you all my days,” you said.

“You haven’t known me that long,” he joked, trying to ease his own tension.

“I have known of a man that loves me with all his beating heart, who holds naught but kindness in his eyes, and not a vein of running menace beneath his skin. I’ve known of this man all my life, and it was a privilege to meet him so soon.”

Always a way with words. He debated making another joke or taking your comment seriously.

“I’m afraid you haven’t found him yet,” was what he settled for, a mix between the two.

“I’m afraid I did, about seven or eight years ago. I think his name was John Richard Deacon, and I’m further regretful that I didn’t notice him all that much for such a long time.”

“I noticed you. When I first met you I thought I was in love with you, but I thought it was stupid later… guess former me was the right one, eh?”

You laughed, and he smiled at the beauty you created with one simple action. You pressed your forehead against his, letting your face relax.

“I’ve known. Didn’t act on it because I knew you didn’t feel the same.”

“I’m sorry to tell you but I do feel the same,” John giggled.

You kissed him again, just as soft and as sweet as before.

“I think these kisses you’re giving me are my favorite in the whole world,” he murmured starstruck against your lips.

“Oh my love, you’ve seen nothing.”


End file.
